


Kiss, kiss, bang, bang

by posnufkin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Betrayal, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Language, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Organized Crime, Romance, Slash, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2018-09-15 18:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9250892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/posnufkin/pseuds/posnufkin
Summary: Harry is a crime scene analyst who becomes obsessed with a series of seemingly unrelated murders. Soon enough he becomes entangled in a web of organised crime due to the mysterious Draco Malfoy.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever fic, so please tell me about any improvements I can make. I'll probably forget to update at times but I'll try to keep it going if anyone likes it :) sorry if it seems slow or anything, but I hope you enjoy it anyway! (also the title is just one I thought fitted, I'm still undecided about what it should be called) Beta by @Sevondia she's amazing read her stuff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco's POV

_Stop, breathe, count to ten, then it’s easy. Twist, crack, drop, bang, dead. Five simple steps, and they’re bleeding out on the floor before they even know what’s happening. It’s not personal, not if you don’t let them get in your head. Don’t look at their face, walk out immediately after, don’t ask the client questions. You have one job, and no matter what the method is, it always comes down to the simple fact that you are there to kill someone for money. It doesn’t matter if they’re innocent or not, you’re not a vigilante, you just shut up and do what you have to do with no comment. Leave no evidence behind, wear gloves, a mask and a plastic suit; don’t make this look like a big deal unless it needs to be. Don’t get me wrong, sometimes the client wants to make an example out of their victim, but that’s usually more hassle than it’s worth. And on the rare occasion that does happen it’s not me who’s going to be on the job, it’ll be one of the psychos who get off on that shit._

_I’m not like them, hell I don’t even know what I gain from doing this. I used to think I knew, used to actually believe I was making a difference for people like the “good guy” I am. But I’m not, I’m just as bad as the people you see on ‘Criminal Minds’, if not worse. Sure I don’t exactly enjoy killing people for a living, but I’m still doing it to keep the family tradition alive. I guess it keeps the NCA on their toes, makes aspiring detectives interested in getting a job, gives people at the bar something to talk about late at night instead of going home to their families. Plus it makes my parents proud, or at least it did. It was just over two months ago when I got a call from the hospital saying my parents were being taken to the ICU after being in a car “accident”. Can it even be called an accident if it was done with the intention to kill? Of course, I’m not exactly going to show up at the police station and explain how my parents were hit by a van at full speed because they just so happened to have killed the perpetrators family twenty years ago, that might cause a few issues. And it’s not like my parents can do anything to validate my story, all they can do is open their eyes and stare every now and again._

_When I was a child my Mother always looked like she wanted to say something to me but was holding back, and she still looks like that now. Her eyes look colder every day, like she’s slowly giving up hope that I’ll be able to fix her. I used to think that she had an inviting appearance, compared to my father anyway, but now it’s like everything she once was shoved deep inside of a doll hooked up to various tubes. I don’t resent her for what’s happened, it's not technically her fault, but when she looks at me with a dead face and living eyes it makes me want to scream “Why me? What have I done to deserve this?” I’ve managed to avoid having a mental breakdown in the presence of my Mother so far, but every day that her eyes grow icier is another day closer to me abandoning her in that dark, lonely room for the remainder of her life._

_My Father’s eyes, on the other hand, have always been devoid of emotion, and so it’s getting increasingly difficult to tell if he’s dead or alive. I don’t know which I’d prefer, with him dead I’d be free to leave this godforsaken house for good, but with him alive I feel as though I still have a purpose in life other than to mindlessly kill. Throughout my childhood the only things I’d hear from my Father were “try harder, Draco, be better”, and whilst I’d much rather be pressured into becoming a better person than being ignored my whole life, the constant thought of “Am I going to ever live up to my parent’s expectations?” didn’t do much for my mental health. The thought that my Father could die and think nothing of me isn’t exactly happy, but I could live with it._

_It’s gotten to the point where I’m walking away from a hit with my whole body covered in blood and brain matter, and I’ll catch a glimpse of myself in a window. Yet what I see isn’t me, I see my parents when they were first brought into the hospital. Mangled limbs, bleeding heads, frantic eyes; they were like scared animals trapped in a cage, nothing like the people I knew. I don’t want to remember them as they are now, and even though we never were a functional family, I just want them to be something other than a heavy burden. Caring for my parents in their current state shouldn’t be a chore, but the lack of support from other family members makes it so. I could get help if I pleaded and begged, grovelling at the feet of my extended family, but I doubt they’re even aware of my parent’s current state, plus Father would be angry at me for ‘damaging his pride’. Pride, pride is all anyone ever cares about in this family. It’s not like it’s anything new, the one common trait that seems to be passed down through generations of the Malfoy family is the innate need for pride. Ironically, pride is what got my family into this mess to begin with._

_Mother would always tell me about what Father was like when they first met. He wanted to create a legacy for our family that wasn’t full of greed, bloodshed and violence, something that showed our family as one of intelligent individuals who didn’t need to fight to show power. He and Mother had an arranged marriage; Grandfather had enough influence left to control who would be allowed into such a prestigious family. As far as I know, my Father looked up to Grandfather greatly, and so when he died it broke Father. It happened before I was born, and neither of my parents talks about that time, so I’d ask the older members of staff questions about it. They told me how my Grandfather was a man of business, what type of business they did not specify, and that a rival man of business killed him over a business matter. At the age of five the word “business” meant rich men in suits who worked at the city centre and knocked down old houses to make offices. Obviously when I grew older and learnt about my family’s background I established that “man of business” was the subtle way of saying “your grandfather kills people for a living”. So when Grandfather was killed by a rival family, Father took matters into his own hands. Every single thing he had worked for in his youth was squandered when he essentially butchered the entire family. When it’s phrased like that, I can see why my parents were attacked, once again it comes down to pride; that whole ‘if you hurt my family I’ll make an example of you’ kind of thing._

_I’d call this whole thing petty but then here I am doing exactly what my family were previously known for: killing for money. Then again, what else can I do? I haven’t any degree or proof of education like other people my age, all I have is a crumpled GCSE results sheet. Mother and Father didn’t deem it necessary for me to go to college or receive any form of training other than what they had to offer in our “family business”. It’s hardly in the family anymore; it’s developed into some kind of cult with more members than I care to count. With my Mother and Father currently incapacitated, I’ve been given a much more prominent role in this ‘business’. I don’t take the unsavoury cases; those are saved for the “Death Eaters”. Personally, I prefer to stick to the simple ‘break their neck, shoot them in the head and then leave’ approach. And the title “Death Eater” is rather stupid in my eyes; having a name can cause complications if it gets out. Then again the “Death Eaters” thrive in the public eye, the adrenaline of being chased and the power to evoke fear helps them sleep at night. They’re maniacs, no better than the self-anointed leader, Tom Riddle, but to the tabloids he allows himself to be known as “Lord Voldemort”. I’m genuinely surprised that any old puzzle solver hasn’t realised that the title “Lord Voldemort” is merely an anagram. Dear Tom doesn’t exactly score well in the creative name department. And me? Well I don’t have a fancy name given by the tabloid papers; I’m just put under the category of “jealous ex-partner”, “tragic suicide” or “crazed family member”. No one gives two shits about the poor old sod that got shot or strangled, people care about the family of three who were torn to shreds as if by a rabid animal, care about the popular girl at school who was hung drawn and quartered in her own cellar, they’ll only care about anything vaguely graphic or ‘interesting’. In some ways it’s sad, I take these people’s lives and the only publicity they get is a brief mention on page twelve. But on the other hand, I’m less likely to get caught than the others. No one’s going to suspect a scrawny twenty eight year old to be a member of an organised crime group; no one would even notice him in the first place. ___


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta by @Sevondia aka the skinniest legend I love her

“Coming out tonight, Harry? It’s quiz night at the Three Broomsticks and Neville wants you to come along to get your _‘head out of this case’ _, his words not mine!” Ron’s sprawled out across one of the office chairs, muddy shoes resting on a pile of paperwork, probably smudging details on cases that will never be solved. It’s not that he doesn’t care about the cases — Ron would argue that he cares more than anyone else in the department — it’s just that it’s almost eleven on a Friday night, and being cooped up at work isn’t exactly high on his list of things to do.__

__“Sorry tonight’s not a great night.” Harry’s eyes don’t even move from the file, but he didn’t have to look up to know that Ron’s rolling his eyes, “Stop rolling your eyes, you know we need to get a lead before this case gets taken out of our hands.”_ _

__“You’re getting too involved in this,” Ron swings his legs into a slightly less relaxed position, “you know that’s been your excuse for the past three months? You need some time away from this shit mate.”_ _

__“I don’t need time away,” Harry scans through the list of murders in the past month, “I need you to get in contact with someone who can help us prove the link in these cases.” His hand runs through his hair, fingers getting tangled in the mess._ _

__“What? Why do we need to link them? None of the evidence points to one.” A fizz emits from Ron’s direction, “Or is this one of your _‘there’s no evidence but I’m right’ _moments?” He hands the coke can over to Harry, glancing over the other man’s indecipherable page of notes.___ _

____“Have I ever been wrong though?” Harry asks pointedly. A simple eyebrow raise from Ron proves his point, and he returns back to his paper. “I know the link is here,” he murmurs, “I just can’t explain it.”_ _ _ _

____“You’re not going to be finding a link in that mess anyway,” Ron briefly gestures at the page of scribbles, “I have no idea how you read your own writing. Why don’t you just type like the rest of us?”_ _ _ _

____“My eyes hurt looking at a screen for too long,” Harry leans further over the file, “And I am perfectly capable of reading my notes thank you very much.”_ _ _ _

____“Okay, okay,” Ron shrugs and turns back to his own desk, “you know I forget how stubborn you are, then you open your mouth and reality comes swinging back.”_ _ _ _

____“I’m not stubborn,” Harry grumbles, “I just refuse to ignore my instincts.”_ _ _ _

____“That’s what being stubborn is, you twat.”_ _ _ _

____“I’m still not stubborn.”_ _ _ _

____“Yeah, if you’re not stubborn then I’m being made head of department.” Harry snorts at that and Ron chucks a pen at the back of his head. “Hey, I can make snarky remarks about my life but that doesn’t mean you can laugh at them. Anyway, what made you think of a link in the first place?”_ _ _ _

____Harry sighs, barely registering his fingers running through his hair again. “It’s just… it’s too random to be a coincidence.” Speaking his thoughts out loud has never worked out well; words aren’t an accurate representation of what you think. Harry will make leaps in logic that no one but he can comprehend, and even he himself can’t explain the reason behind the jump, he just knows there is one. Yet in all the years he’s been working as a crime analyst, and even the years before that, he’d always been right when he followed his gut instinct. Some called him impulsive, but it’s never done him any harm. A tap on his shoulder breaks him out of his thoughts, and he turns around to see Ron standing impatiently._ _ _ _

____“C’mon then,” Ron perches on the edge of the desk, “explain this hidden link to the lesser minded.”_ _ _ _

____“You’re not lesser minded, you’re just —“ Ron cuts him off mid-sentence with a ‘shush’ and gesticulates to the open file and notebook._ _ _ _

____“Well,” Harry hesitantly begins, “they’re all just too close together to be completely random. I’m not saying that it’s a serial killer or something, but I am saying that these all must have some common trait that links them together. It could be a copycat, or it could be a group of people, I don’t know, but I do know that these are too close together in time, too out of the blue, and too, well, perfectly executed, to be a random chain of events. But I can’t find evidence to prove this, which is why I need you to contact someone who’s been working closely on these cases in order to prove that there’s a link. You know how hard it is to prove to McGonagall that there is more to a case than the evidence shows, so we need something.”_ _ _ _

____Ron slowly nods, his lack of conversation proving that he’s thinking about what can be done. “Remember Hermione Granger? No? Yeah, well she was in a few of our lectures at the start of first year, and now she works in the Behavioural Science department with Ginny. I’ll ask Ginny to get her up tomorrow morning. I think she’s good at what she does; I overhear people going on about her when I go to drop off the files. It’s usually praise.”_ _ _ _

____Harry nods slightly, his head still somewhere else. Bringing people who work in the field into the analysis aspect isn’t uncommon, but it’s not exactly something that he’d want to do. It decreases your chance of getting a promotion as you can’t find evidence on your own. Then again, he wasn’t likely to get a promotion at this point anyway. If there were such a thing as a red card in the NCA, Harry would’ve had one by now. The last major case he was allowed in on involved a drug ring down in Kent, and even though his instincts led to a whole group of traffickers being exposed, the resulting death of every single trafficker and no way to find out how far their influence had spread didn’t leave Harry high on McGonagall’s list of people to promote._ _ _ _

____After a few moments of silence, Ron notices that Harry’s eyes have glazed over. Harry spaced out often, especially when he was thinking about something intensely. Even though he and Harry had been friends for nearly ten years Ron still couldn’t tell what he was thinking, not that Harry would appreciate such an intrusion. He’d first met Harry when they were moving into undergraduate accommodation, and the first thing Harry had noticed was that Ron had low self-esteem but made up for it with humour. ‘Or attempts to’ Harry had nonchalantly added on. It took a couple of weeks for Ron to realise that Harry wasn’t necessarily being rude, he’d just spent most of his life surrounded by people who hadn’t cared about him very much. Over the years, Ron had found out a lot of details about Harry’s life, but not enough to understand him fully. Harry didn’t talk much about his biological parents; Ron doubted Harry himself even knew what happened to them. The only ‘family’ Harry had ever mentioned were his aunt, uncle and cousin, and from what Ron could gather Harry’s departure from that household was the best day of his life._ _ _ _

____When Ron had invited Harry to his family’s Christmas a couple of years ago, he was certainly not expecting him to show up, let alone to instantly bond with the entire Weasley family. Later that night (after a considerable amount of alcohol) Ron had asked him whether or not his family made Harry feel like he finally had one for himself. In response, he’d just looked around the packed room with a slight smile and sipped his mulled wine. It was a good an answer as any for Ron, and after that night Harry became a regularly seen face in the Weasley household. Yet in spite of this there were still significant parts of Harry’s life that remained a mystery to Ron._ _ _ _

____“Harry,” Ron eventually breaks his friend out of the trance, “I think you should head home. It’s almost ten and I’m not letting you sleep here again tonight.” Harry opens his mouth to protest, but a yawn inadvertently leaves in place of words. In apparent defeat, as defeated as Harry Potter could be anyway, he nods and got ready to leave. Everything is still slightly out of focus, blurred around the edges so his eyes can only take in one thing at a time. Harry feels Ron’s stare burning into the back of his neck as he leaves the office; Ron’s probably itching to make another comment on Harry’s sleeping habit or relationship status or, in reality, lack thereof._ _ _ _

____Once Harry’s out of the building, he feels his heart slow down a fraction, his throat opens up so he can breathe easier, and his vision begins to return to normal. As he walks down the street, he casts his mind back to his earlier, less desirable memories. The cupboard he’d slept in at the Dursley’s, the boarding school he’d spend most of his teenage years in, the constant longing for some place he could call “home” and actually feel like it were one._ _ _ _

____He can’t recall the exact point at which he decided he wanted to work in crime analysis, but it couldn’t have been much further on than his fourteenth birthday. It was spent alone as usual; with no friends to call his own or a family that took any notice of him besides a heedless “pass the jam” at the dinner table. Harry had quickly grown accustomed to spending his birthday sat alone in a park with a photo of his parents and a bottle of whatever liqueur he managed to take from his uncle’s cupboard without being seen. The fact that he had always been alone didn’t necessarily bother him as he didn’t feel like he was missing out._ _ _ _

____When he had told Ron about this mentality of _‘I don’t know what I’m missing so it doesn’t bother me’ _, he had used the analogy of being a vegetarian surrounded by other vegetarians all your life. You’ve never had meat, and you’ve never been close to anyone who eats meat, and so you don’t feel like you’re missing out on anything. The comparison was fitting in the way that everyone around Harry was carnivorous, preying on the weak and devouring them. That’s how he perceives the criminals he studies day in, day out; they’re predators, searching for something that will make them feel like they’re in control. Some will play with their prey; they’ll skin them, maim them, some will even eat them, but they all die in the end.___ _ _ _

______Harry’s been so lost inside of his head he doesn’t acknowledge the pair of legs stuck out in front of him. He trips and falls over them, barely managing to not hit the floor and regain his balance in time to save his dignity. Turning around he begins to briskly walk away in an attempt to forget the embarrassing event, but the cause of Harry’s fall jumps up as if someone has lit a fire under their arse, a fate Harry wishes would befall the mystery man._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Sorry,” a low, slightly drawling voice sounds behind Harry, “but you should’ve watched where you were going.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Harry stops and abruptly turns around; inside he wants to argue with the man, but in reality he’ll just apologise. He takes in the slightly taller man, analysing his appearance and personality all in one look. Tall and slim but with a slight muscular quality around his arms and shoulders; he’d be hard to avoid in a fight as he’d catch you off guard, most likely from behind. Light hair that shines under the streetlamps, its slicked back and well kept, but slight splits between clumped locks and white spots along his collar suggests something has happened over the past few days to damage his usually perfect appearance. Pale skin which would usually be clear as a result of such good grooming shows signs of blotching and the dark eyes clearly show a lack of sleep and stress._ _ _ _ _ _

______The drawl implies he’s from a well-off area, but the hoarse, low tone he speaks at allows Harry to interpret the thing that’s been affecting this man has led to him being isolated without speaking to anyone for at least a month. The sly smirk doesn’t quite reach his grey eyes, they just look tired and empty, like whatever has been happening in his life is sucking the life out of him. The man looks Harry up and down with narrowed eyes, sizing him up. Harry wonders if he’s analysing him in the same way. What would he discover? An awkward, disheveled, overworked and boring employee, no doubt._ _ _ _ _ _

______However, Harry’s thoughts only reside on himself for a short while. Like magnets, they can’t help but to return to the strange man in front of him. On closer inspection, he notes that the man’s eyes are bloodshot and slightly puffy, and the part of Harry that actually cares yearns to learn more about this stranger’s situation. He reminds Harry of a fox he sometimes used to see at the park in Little Whinging. It would sit at an opposite end of the field to Harry and scowl at him, but every now and then it came over and just sat next to Harry, watching the sun set over the houses. The fox tried to portray himself as a strong, solitary, aloof, but in reality it was just as timid and weak as any other animal in the area. It took the fox a long time to get comfortable around Harry, and it’s not like Harry had anything better to do with his summer than to try and befriend a fox. It was actually an ideal friendship by the end of it, neither spoke and they just sat there in a comfortable silence for hours on end._ _ _ _ _ _

______Then one summer the fox stopped showing up, and even though it wasn’t a friendship per say, Harry still felt like part of him was missing. That was the summer before he left the Dursley’s, and it was a long and lonely experience. After he turned eighteen, his ‘family’ decided it was as good a time as any to finally get the burden called Harry out of their hair. The closest thing he has to a friend right now is Ron, and it’s not like Harry tried particularly hard to bond with the red haired man on his first day at university, they had to like each other by default since they’d be living together for the next four years. And so when his usually expressionless eyes met the hurting ones of this stranger, he was as shocked as anything when he felt his eyes soften around the edges. He has a chance, he realises, a chance to help someone in need. It’s an unusual feeling for Harry to experience, caring for a stranger’s wellbeing. Yet he’s not exactly against it, it feels strange, but it in a nice way. His stomach is full of butterflies, whether they’re nervous or excited he cannot be sure. But what he can know is he’s not letting this fox go._ _ _ _ _ _

______“I’m so sorry.” Harry breaks the silence awkwardly, looking carefully at the stranger’s reaction. The stranger looks momentarily shocked but composes himself quickly, taking this time to look over Harry. The butterflies in Harry’s stomach turned to stone as the stranger’s eyes dragged along him, taking in every speck of dust, each ill-kept hair, the way his nails were bitten down to the core out of stress. The stranger’s gaze finally locked with Harry’s and the sly smirk melted into a genuine, heartfelt smile as he shook his head._ _ _ _ _ _

______“It’s fine, honestly.” The drawl of his voice is less so and Harry notices that the man’s body language is much less hostile, his shoulders relax and he leans against the lamppost. Harry nods awkwardly, looking around at the people stood outside the pub across the street to distract himself from the man before him. After a few moments the man clearly begins to grow frustrated and sighs, snapping Harry’s attention back to him._ _ _ _ _ _

______“So…” The hint of annoyance in the stranger’s voice is obvious, “Are you going to just stand there all night? You’re blocking the street and I’ve got places to be.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Oh I’m sorry, didn’t know you couldn’t just step onto the street to walk past me.” Harry snaps and the shock in his eyes is mimicked in the shock on the face of the man opposite. The temptation to apologise again is overwhelming but before Harry can speak the stranger snorts loudly, his grin widening._ _ _ _ _ _

______“So you’re not an idiot, good to know. Draco.” The man, or ‘Draco’, sticks a hand out for Harry to shake. Harry can’t help but notice that his nails are almost non-existent. At least that’s one thing they have in common._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Interesting name. I’m just Harry.” Draco’s hand was cold when he grasped it, and they held on slightly longer than many would deem necessary._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Well, Just Harry,” Draco smiled again and let go of Harry’s hand to run it through his almost white hair. Another thing that they had in common. “What are you doing out alone so late? You don’t particularly strike me as the sociable type but you also don’t look like a killer on the prowl. So what's the story?” Harry smiled slightly at Draco’s observations and leant against the stone wall opposite Draco and out of the middle of the pavement._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Working late. And what about you? You seem a lot more like the silent and alone type who enjoys wandering the streets late at night.” Draco gaze is piercing, like Harry is on trial just for observing the other man’s characteristics. It’s disconcerting but the impulsive part of Harry pushes him to carry on picking at the silver-haired man in front of him._ _ _ _ _ _

______“You’re out here because you don’t have anywhere else to turn. You’ve lived in luxury, I can tell by how you look, but something has happened recently and you’re not taking care of yourself like you used to. Whatever is happening is worrying you, your nails are bitten to the core. But you don’t want to go back to what you used to have, which is why you come out here. Here there’s no one to judge you, no one knows who you are. Except me.” Draco’s eyebrows rise at the last comment, his smirk coming back._ _ _ _ _ _

______“That’s a bit presumptive,” He drawls, “How are you so certain you’re right about me?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“I’m always right about people.” Harry’s words are distant, his mind threatening to pull him into repressed memories, but the scoff of Draco drags him back out._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Are you always this stubborn?” Harry rolls his eyes as Draco stands up straighter, “Now, it's my turn. When I look at you I see someone who’s never held a conversation as long as this in his life, you usually phase out of the conversation because the other person can’t keep up with how you think. You don’t have many things to tie you down and so you get lost in your job. Given the dismal state of your slacks and that ugly crumpled shirt you probably work long hours in an office. It's not a normal computing or business job, you couldn’t stand something that doesn’t keep you engaged. You’re in need of constant intellectual stimulation so you probably work in solving something. You write a lot, your fingers are blistered with damaged ends and they’re covered in ink. But you want more, you’re hoping for a promotion but not for money. No, you don’t care about something so material. You want to do something with your life; perhaps you want revenge for something I don’t know yet. But I know this much, you’re not the only one who can see past the superficial, guess you’ve finally met someone you can pay attention to for longer than thirty seconds.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Taken aback doesn’t quite cover how Harry feels. He’s not insulted by anything Draco has said, more shocked that someone has actually been able to learn something about him without knowing him at all. With a few glances Draco managed to learn more about him than Ron has in ten years, and Harry finds himself even more drawn to the person he sees before him._ _ _ _ _ _

______“You’d be correct in assuming that.” Harry’s expression of bewilderment melts into a small grin as Draco’s smug smile broadens._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Well then I guess you’ve met your match Harry,” Draco cracks his neck and goes over to stand next to Harry, looking down at the shorter man with a playful glint in his eyes, “And what do I get as a reward for matching your incredible intelligence?” His breath is surprisingly cool, making the hairs on Harry’s neck stand on end._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Bragging rights.” Harry chuckles nervously, running his hand down the back of his neck and feeling the goose bumps forming._ _ _ _ _ _

______“And who will I brag about beating? Harry isn’t exactly an uncommon name.” Draco’s gaze is unrelenting._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Potter.” Harry tentatively said, maintaining steady eye contact with Draco as if to say ‘I’m not as weak as you think’, despite this being possibly the longest conversation he’d held with anyone other than Ron in years._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Ah, okay then ‘Harry Potter’,” the way Draco says Harry’s name sends shivers down his spine, “I, Draco Malfoy, would like to buy you a drink. And would you look at that, conveniently we are opposite a pub.” As Harry goes to decline his offer Draco puts a finger up to shush Harry. “It’s not like you’re doing anything else, and perhaps you can learn some more about me when I’ve had a few drinks.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Are you always this arrogant?” Harry rolls his eyes again but feels drawn in by the odd thought of going to drinks with a stranger at eleven at night. This was new, strange — but Harry felt anything but uncomfortable._ _ _ _ _ _

______“And are you always this uptight?” Draco’s retorts are always so quick, his mind as sharp as a razor and just as deadly. The part of Harry which values a decent amount of sleep and thinking before he acts tells him to just walk home and forget about this whole event, but the bigger and more impulsive part takes over, and before he knows it he’s sat at a table and observing the strange man by the name of Draco under a considerably brighter light. His hair is far lighter than any other hair Harry had seen and it blended in with his almost translucent skin. He wondered if it was natural — he looked ill to say the least, and his figure may be muscular but he’s clearly not taking care of himself._ _ _ _ _ _

______The topics of discussion had gone by in a blur and despite Harry’s attempts at getting to know Draco every reply seemed to be more mysterious than the last; a riddle of sorts which Harry had to crack to really dig into the man’s mind. Harry, on the other hand, lacked the finesse to avoid answering personal questions. When the Weasleys asked about how he was he always was able to work his way out of answering in detail, yet there was a certain charm Draco possessed which encouraged Harry top open up like he had never done before. He found himself talking about how his job made him feel like he was never going to be good enough to amount to anything yet he was still willing to try. Whilst he managed to avoid the topic of family he still found himself speaking more freely than he had done in years, treating Draco almost like a sound board. It took a weight off his chest that he didn’t know was there and even though Draco wasn’t particularly forthcoming on telling Harry about his life, Harry could see cracks in the elusive facade being broken with every tiny change in body language. By the time the clock chimes 11:45 Harry is pulled out of his thoughts and focussing again on Draco who is absentmindedly drinking the last of his pint. Harry’s gaze wanders around the dismal pub, the battered tables, grimy walls and the bartender looking pointedly at them, as if telling them to leave so he can close up._ _ _ _ _ _

______“You ready to head off?” Draco rubs at his eyes dejectedly, clearly trying to hide a yawn but failing. This element of vulnerability just serves to make Harry even more enthralled with Draco, who seems to avoid any questions about his personal life like he’s dodging bullets being shot by Harry. Although Harry doesn’t actually want to leave, he’s well aware that the bartender is getting ever more annoyed with the two men, and so it would be best for them to leave. When they step outside they’re met with a light drizzle and a drop in temperature which shouldn’t be allowed in mid-June. Harry shivered in this cool night air. Really, he thought, rubbing at his goosebump prickled arms, he should start bringing the Christmas jumper Mrs Weasley knitted for him when he goes out. It had this almost magical power heating up the coldest man alive up in mere seconds, what with its tightly knitted tones of warm reds and oranges. Briefly, Harry wondered if its powers could warm the icy state of Draco’s figure. Would he look good in red?_ _ _ _ _ _

______Out of the corner of his eye Harry noticed Draco looking at him in sympathy and moving to remove his own darkly coloured jacket._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Don’t, I’m f—“ Harry’s protests are cut off by Draco once again shushing him and pushing a warm leather bundle into his arms. Knowing that arguing against Draco is pointless Harry puts the jacket on, “You know it's rude to shush people.” Draco rolled his eyes again and smirked at Harry._ _ _ _ _ _

______“You know, I wouldn’t have to shush you if you weren’t so stubborn. You should work on that for next time we meet.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“So there’ll be a next time?” Harry can’t deny that the butterflies in his stomach are back and getting increasingly restless._ _ _ _ _ _

______“If you’d like that?” The element of worry in Draco’s eyes is undeniable and Harry can’t ignore the tugging at his heart when he sees this._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Yes,” Harry smiles, “Yes I would.” The grin on the other man’s face makes Harry’s heart flutter as Draco takes Harry’s phone and adds himself as a contact. When the pale man looks up at him again the cold and weary greyness of his eyes is gone and that sight alone is enough to make Harry’s stomach knot, like he’s going up a rollercoaster and is about to begin plummeting down._ _ _ _ _ _

______“I’ll see you around then, Harry Potter.” Draco gives a slight nod and the smirk Harry’s beginning to grow fond of reappears. Before he knows it he’s stood alone on the empty street under the flickering yellow light of the lampost._ _ _ _ _ _

______When Harry arrives home his phone vibrates:  
Draco: _You can keep the jacket. _____ _ _ _ _


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there was going to be another section to this but it ended up being over 10'000 words so I've split this up into part one and part two :)

As the following week drags by, Draco becomes increasingly distracted from his work, and this distraction has a name. The distraction also has adorably messy hair and broken glasses and absolutely atrocious fashion sense. Ever since Draco parted ways with a certain Harry Potter on that dark street the man has been on his mind constantly like an itch he can’t get rid of. It's not like Harry is someone he would want to forget about, his smile alone made Draco’s mood higher than it had been in years. Yet in his line of business, you simply can’t afford to get attached to people. The risk of Harry getting hurt increases with each and every thought that Draco spares regarding his presence, and even though Draco barely knows Harry, the thought of him getting dragged into Draco’s destructive web doesn’t bear thinking about. He’d already lost two family members. How could he cope with losing someone that, despite barely knowing him, made him feel normal? 

These are the thoughts running through Draco’s head on the Wednesday evening following their encounter. He’d texted the other man a few times after the initial meeting, but he craves having an actual conversation with the dark haired man. Yes, texting is good for thinking carefully about what he can and can’t say, but ultimately Draco struggles to connect with anyone through a screen. He wants to be able to see how Harry’s styled his hair and what this says about his personality. He wants to be able to smell to subtle scent of Harry’s cologne. He wants to see the way Harry’s green eyes light up when Draco smiles at him. Never before has anyone been able to wheedle their way into Draco’s mind and completely warp his perception of the world in the way that Harry Potter did. Not that Draco would have let anyone in prior to this experience; the old idea of ‘they can’t hurt you if you don’t let them in’ had been indoctrinated into his mind from an early age. And what would Draco’s darling father have to say about Draco considering opening up his heart to another man, especially a man who doesn’t seem to have any noble ties? God forbid the Malfoy name is sullied; Lucius’ poor heart couldn’t stand such a thing. In a strange way, the fact that Draco knows how much his father would disapprove of his desires only makes him want to act on them more, to remind his father that he had failed to make the perfect son he always dreamed of.

The vibration from Draco’s phone startles him out of his thoughts, making him jump slightly as it echoes around the silent room. If it weren’t for the texts Draco imagines he would go insane in the empty house with no one to keep him company except two lifeless figures and the spiders crawling the walls. When Draco checks his phone the light from the screen almost blinds him as it pierces the darkness of the room. This is the one room in the house that his father wasn’t allowed to touch. This had made it into a sanctuary for Draco despite his own bed not even feeling like his own; everything was contaminated by the silver and green décor his father adored. The beds were all iron and cold so there was no comfort to be found there, the only place Draco could find peace and solitude was in a small, dark room which had been barely used since Draco was a child. When he was twelve one of the maids had found an old piano in the cellar below piles of paperwork on contract kills over the years, and once all of the dust had been scraped off Draco felt like that battered, old piano was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. It was horribly out of tune and the keys were yellow with age but after months of pleading he had managed to convince his father that the piano was a way of keeping Draco out of the important business meetings Lucius would hold at their house. Of course Lucius wasn’t going to pay for any repairs; Draco had to pay for it himself as “being responsible for one’s own finances builds character” Lucius said in a monotone voice with a glare that could kill.

After that point Draco spent more time in the little room in the far corner of the west wing. He’d spend hours on end trying to play songs he heard on the radio, avoiding all contact with anyone in the outside world. He’d never say that he was good (he’d never had a lesson in his life) but there was something about the way his fingers seamlessly flowed over the keys creating melodies he’d never even heard before that calmed his mind and kept him sane in the dark, dreary place he called home. Ever since his parent’s accident Draco had been spending a lot more time in this room to try and escape the dead, stagnant air in the rest of the house. Although his family had never been particularly loud there had always been noises somewhere in the house, whether it was servants making food in the kitchens, his father talking to clients or his mother arguing with her bat-shit sister. But now the servants are long gone, Lucius’ clients are now Draco’s and Bellatrix is completely off the radar. This evidently leaves Draco all alone in the echoing manor with peeling wallpaper and an ever increasing amount of grime on the windows, neither of which he can be bothered fixing.

It’s not that Draco is particularly lonely living with no one but the comatose bodies of his parents. For the most part he is perfectly happy with his own company, yet ever since he met Harry he wants to spend more and more time with the messy haired man with the glasses and a tendency to spend several minutes on end just staring into space. Draco is well aware of how quickly he’s gotten attached to Harry after only meeting him once, but he’s never actually had someone who he could form any form of a relationship with. Growing up in a strict household focussed on pride and nothing else meant that he lacked the social skills many other children his age had developed. Yes he had interacted with the people at school and the children of family friends but he’d never genuinely felt a connection with anyone else. Yet now here he was finding Harry on his mind 24/7, and Draco is unsure of whether this is a normal obsession for someone who’s never had a real friend before, or if there are potential romantic feelings bubbling under the surface. If only Lucius could see him now, Draco has no doubt in his mind that he’d have a fit and possibly disinherit his only heir. A few years ago Draco would have wanted to avoid instigating a reaction like that at all costs, but now he couldn’t care less of what his father thinks of him and the choices he makes. It’s not like Lucius would be able to tell him that he was disappointed in Draco, but Draco had been considering sending his parents away with the nurse who would come to feed them Plus, he is carrying on the family business and it's not like he’s getting anyone to help their current situation. There remains a small part of Draco who wishes he could go back to when he was seventeen and just starting out in the family business. Lucius had declared how he was “so proud of him” — and those four words were enough to make Draco forget about all the heartbreak and nights spent feeling like he wasn’t born into the right family. However, the feeling had not lasted. After a few months, Draco began to realise that he still wasn’t what his father had wanted, and the one time that he had confronted his mother about it she’d said that Draco was reminding Lucius too much of his youth. Part of Draco felt bad for his father after this, but Draco began to resent his father more as it became apparent that Lucius didn’t care about Draco and just wanted to make Draco into ‘the perfect son’. Yes, admittedly Draco wasn’t the ideal son and he didn’t share many of the same values as Lucius — but he was his son nonetheless. His blood. By the time of the crash Draco felt like it didn’t make much of a difference that Lucius was dead to the world, he’d been dead to Draco since the day he was born.

Getting lost in his thoughts like this was something Draco often found himself doing. At a young age he felt himself being pulled into a world of fantasy in which he didn’t have to think through everything twice before he said it, a world where his parents didn’t care if his collar was slightly crooked, a world where he didn’t have to be him. When he was out of the house with his mother he would often see a family of redheads laughing and constantly smiling. They all wore mismatched socks and ghastly knitted jumpers at Christmas time, and his own mother would look at them like they were sewer rats whilst encouraging Draco to do the same. However, the conditioned sneer he held didn’t reach his eyes, and his mind would be left yearning to join a family like that where they focussed on love and not “representing the family name in public”. But dreams don’t come true, Draco learnt that quickly enough. And yet now here is this man with the ability to make Draco forget about all the shit going on in his life and brought out the reclusive smile which hadn’t been seen in years. His phone buzzes again in his pocket and Draco opens the text from Harry.

**H: **hi it’s harry i was wondering if you maybe wanted to get coffee with me on friday you don’t have to if you have better things to do i understand but yeah i thought i’d ask :)****

********

********

**D: **I know it’s you, stupid. And sure coffee sounds good, do you know where Milk is? I’ll meet you there at 9. And will you ever use punctuation or capital letters? Or will I just have to get used to this complete butchering of the English language?****

********

********

**H: **well i guess you’ll just have to stick around and find out****

********

********

**D: **That I will.****

********

********

Draco smirked as he put his phone down, remembering the fluttering feeling he had in his chest when Harry had smiled at him for the first time. He was like an addict, waiting desperately for his next hit of butterflies to make him feel like he actually has a heart and is a real human being.

After he replies to Harry’s message Draco gets up from his sitting position on the floor to wander over to the piano and sit before it. He lightly brushed his pale fingers along the even paler keys, pressing absentmindedly at random which brought about soft echos around the dark room. The sun set long ago but the moonlight is enough to make the keys shine in an almost ghostly manner. Punctuated by the notes, the air held a heavy silence, and Draco contemplated opening a window so he could breathe easier.

Suddenly, the loud sound of the house phone rang out, startling Draco and causing his heart to race. The main landline hadn’t sounded for months since most calls went straight to Draco’s mobile, so a feeling of unease settled in his stomach instantly at the sound of the high pitched ring. Who could possibly have his number? In the moment, he decided that it would be best to let the phone continue ringing due to the fact that it was most likely a sales call or a misdial, and he breathed an audible sigh of relief when it eventually fell silent. Draco goes to turn back to the comfort of the instrument when the phone begins again, causing him to hesitate and rethink the current situation. Running quickly through the possible scenarios in his head, he concludes that he should go to the phone and wait to see if it rings again. Third time’s the charm, as everyone says. 

As Draco apprehensively walks down the long corridor leading to the parlour he feels a shiver run up his spine. The fine hairs on his neck stand on end and he has the uneasy feeling that the portraits which line the walls are watching his every move. Draco always found the portraits of his ancestors disturbing, ever since he first wandered along this corridor as a child. They’re all painted with dark colours with a greyish tint on the skin which made them all look deathly ill. One time when he was younger Draco stood in front of the skeletal face of his great-great-great grandmother and he felt as though her eyes moved so that they were always watching him. Ever since that day he had avoided eye contact with any of the paintings, walking briskly down the corridor with his eyes facing down at his swiftly moving feet. Yet even then he could still feel their eyes piercing his skull like daggers, picking at his brain to uncover his darkest secrets. There isn’t much in this world that scares Draco, being a contract killer meant you had to confront any of your fears to avoid weakness. But there’s just something about these sinister paintings which makes his stomach churn and his heart race.

The feeling of relief as he finally reaches the parlour is immense, like a huge weight has been lifted off his chest. He leans against the fading wallpaper and sighs deeply, closing his eyes and scolding himself for being so childish in his unease. The sound of the phone ringing yet again startles him and he hesitates for a moment before picking it up from the receiver.

“Who is this?” His tone is harsh, but not like he’d ever been taught to be polite to strangers and this stranger was certainly trying his patience. There’s no response at first, just the sound of someone breathing quietly into the phone. Draco rolls his eyes in annoyance; of course it's just some stupid teenagers playing a prank call. He goes to put the phone down when a strangled cry comes sounds out, causing his grasp on the device to slip.

“Hello? What do you want?” Draco’s voice is much more rushed this time, with a hint of concern. The cry was high pitched, almost like a child, and as bad a person as he was, the sound of this pained child panicked him. The phone falls silent again for a moment before the breathing starts again. This time it's heavier and gets increasingly louder. The knots in Draco’s stomach which had been present when he was walking down the corridor come back with vengeance and his heart-rate speeds up. He angrily slams the phone down and takes three steps back, looking at it like it just transformed into a cat. Draco shakes his head aggressively, blonde strands falling over his eyes, and tells himself to get a grip over what was probably just a stupid prank call. He glances at the large grandfather clock in the far right of the room and sees it's almost ten o’clock at night. As soon as he notices this his body begins to ache with fatigue and he decides that it's probably time to retire for the night. In his youth he’d stay awake well into the early hours of the morning but as he’s grown older his body can’t function on less than five hours of sleep. Wearily, Draco goes towards to stairs leading to the second floor, but stops in his tracks when he hears the phone ring again. Part of him wishes to just ignore the caller and and go pass out on his bed but he knows it’s likely that the caller will just keep on calling. But they’ll probably stop if he shouts at them; after all they’re probably just some bored children. He picks up the phone once more and listens out for the heavy breathing, but he can’t hear anything at all.

“Look,” He snarls into the phone, “Whoever you are, fuck off. I don’t know if you think this is funny but I’m not particularly amused. If you carry on I swear you will be sorry and wish you’d shut up when you had the chance, do you understand?” His fist clenches when he receives no reply, this is getting beyond ridiculous now. “Fine,” he snaps, “Don’t say anything you prick, and if you call me again I’ll make sure you don’t speak again. Now leave me the fuck alone.”

He shoves the phone away but not even thirty seconds later it's ringing once more. At this point Draco practically has steam coming out of his ears and his hand is shaking out of a mixture of pure rage and and slight anxiety. This time, he doesn’t even give the caller chance to make a sound before he shouts into the phone, “What did I fucking say you piece of shit? I can track your number and you’ll be sorry you ever pissed me off. Are you going to say anything or are you just going to keep breathing down the line like some freak?” There’s a brief pause in which Draco considers throwing the phone at a wall (it’s not like he paid for it) but a voice sounds through the phone. It's robotic, like someone is typing into a computer which is speaking for them.

“980603.” 

The line goes dead and Draco is left with a high pitched beep to tell him the caller is no longer available, and he puts the phone down slowly. A sense of foreboding replaces his anger and the sense that he is being watched returns. He practically runs up the stairs to his room like he did when he was a child and thought that monsters were chasing him wherever he went. As he lies in the cold bed looking up at the bare ceiling he thinks over the phone call. The numbers resonated with him for some unknown reason and he can’t help but feel like they have significance he doesn’t yet understand, not at one AM anyway. Draco closes his eyes in an attempt to calm himself yet the computer generated numbers keep playing over and over again in his mind. He groans and rubs his face out of frustration; turning on his side to stare out of the circular window at the manor’s overgrown grounds. The moon is full and bright which in turn causes the trees to cast eerie shadows across Draco’s room, and the wind causes the nearby branches to tap at his window like fingernails. Draco’s arms are covered in goosebumps as he tries to calm the unsettled feeling in his stomach. Yet this is a hard thing to do when you’re essentially living in a large, empty manor all on your own. Yes his parents are only a corridor away but they’re not in the position to keep him company. Draco feels completely isolated and, for the first time in years, scared.

Draco doesn’t know why he reaches for his mobile that’s next to his bed, and he certainly has no idea what compels him to call Harry at this ungodly hour, but what is perhaps the most shocking thing is that Harry actually answers.

“Hello?” Harry’s voice is low and husky, like he’s just been awoken from a deep sleep. Draco feels a sense of guilt wash over him knowing that he’s woken Harry up for such a stupid reason, but he can’t bring himself to hang up the phone.

“Hi Harry, it’s me. Draco I mean, Draco is me,” God he sounds like such an idiot right now, but Harry’s sleepy chuckle stops his brain from sending him into a spiral of anxiety, “Sorry, did I wake you?”

“’S fine, wasn’t getting a good sleep anyway.” Draco can hear Harry yawn and he can’t help but smile at the thought of how adorable Harry must look now, messy bed hair and all.

“Why weren’t you getting a good sleep?” The thought of anything eating away at Harry and causing him to feel uncomfortable genuinely hurts Draco; he’s never cared this much about someone else’s wellbeing.

“I’ll tell you if you tell me why you’re phoning at one in the morning on a Thursday.” Draco could practically hear Harry smirking on the other side of the phone. He wonders how far away Harry actually is, the bar they had met at was a 15 minute drive away from Malfoy Manor, but since Draco wanted to spend as much time away from that place as possible he would often walk for hours on end down the old lanes leading into the main city. Ever since meeting Harry he had been wondering what it would be like to walk with the messy haired man along that road, talking about anything and everything. Yet Draco couldn’t imagine that Harry would appreciate the nature of Draco’s job, or the intricacies of his home life. It’s for this reason that Draco decides that it's best not to tell Harry about the phone call, Draco wants to track the source and take care of this himself.

“I guess I just missed your voice.” It's not exactly a lie; Draco has missed Harry’s soft voice almost as much as he has missed the way he would suddenly break out into a wide grin when Draco made a sarcastically playful comment. He can’t afford to lose that by telling Harry the truth and potentially getting him involved in his messed up world. The two stay on the phone for almost an hour more before Draco hears gentle snores coming from Harry. Knowing the other man will feel bad for falling asleep on the phone Draco hangs up and sleeps better than he has in months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks @Sevondia for being my beta ily


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for this chapter for child abuse and Lucius being an evil twat

The sound of a woodpigeon screeching at the top of its little lungs arguably isn’t the best sound to wake up to, but nevertheless it's the noise that drags Draco out of his slumber at around nine in the morning. The sun is shining on the grounds making them look like something straight out of Jane Eyre, and for a brief moment Draco completely forgets about the events of the previous night. However, the peace doesn’t last long and before Draco knows it the computerised voice is sounding in his head once more, repeating the same combination of numbers from the previous night over and over as if on a loop. The frustration of being utterly unaware of where he has heard the numbers before eats away at his gut whilst he sits alone at the head of the dining table and looks at the empty chairs surrounding him. As the day progresses, Draco finds himself growing increasingly agitated as the numbers relentlessly throb in his mind, like a headache he can’t get rid of. Even texting Harry doesn’t cease the dull ache, but he realises that it would be out of the question to ask Harry for his advice in case the numbers link to something which could damage their relationship, or whatever their current status is. Hopefully that issue would be addressed when they get coffee tomorrow, resolving at least one of the disconcerting troubles within his mind. 

His parent’s nurse Jean comes over at around noon to check up on their vitals, and Draco stands awkwardly in the doorframe watching the frail old woman fiddling with the tubes and wires around his parents’ beds. They look so small and fragile in their white hospital gowns that Draco struggles to see them as the people he was once so afraid of. Even though Mother had never been as intimidating as Father, Draco still feared disappointing her as when he did, she would look at him with a look which told him that she didn’t think he was worthy of the Malfoy name. A look that hadn’t been in her eyes for a long time now. Jean finishes sorting out the senior Malfoys and turns to Draco, smiling wearily at him. As she begins to carry her medical bag out of the room, Draco stops her suddenly, the impulsive need to do something selfless taking over his usual thought process.

“Here,” He holds his hand out to take her bag, “Let me carry that down. You’ve done enough for me over the past few months anyway.” Jean looked surprised at his actions, especially considering they had barely spoken in all the times she had been visiting beside the impersonal exchanging of names.

“Oh!” Her confused expression melted into a smile, “thank you lovey. You know I do worry about a young man like you cooped up in a big ol’ empty house like this, it's just not right my dear. I know you care about your folks, but they’d be just as well looked after in a hospital. You just think about it for next time I’m over, okay? Don’t want you missing out on life to give it up for your parents.” The pair stop at the bottom of the spiral staircase, just in front of the main entrance.

“I’ve thought about it,” Draco says truthfully, “And I would like to see them in better hands than mine, but Father would not appreciate it and I don’t want to disrespect his wishes.”

“Oh lovey,” Jean gently cups Draco’s cheek, “I know you want to please your old man but he’d much rather you be happy and stress free than to stay looking after him and your Ma in this old place.” Draco barely contains a snort of laughter at how wrong she is.

“I’ll think about it, thank you Jean.” Draco waves her off before closing the door.

-

 

After a lunch which Draco practically has to force himself to eat he attempted to organise his thoughts, or rather one singular thought which had been particularly tormenting him. He grabs a pen and paper and scrawls the numbers down, looking at them like they’re a complicated equation he has to solve. After about fifteen minutes of staring at the paper, Draco’s mind is still completely blank and the numbers are starting to transition in and out of focus. Sighing dejectedly he runs his fingers through his white hair before resting his head in his hands and massaging firmly at his temples. Eventually, he decides that the dining room isn’t the best environment for him to think in, although not that any other part of the manor is particularly better for concentration. The air in all of the rooms is dense and thick with dust and the feeling of sadness that was always ever-present within the manor. Because of how heavy the air felt Draco often found it difficult to breathe even though he knew it was all most likely all in his head. When he steps outside even for a few moments, it's like this great weight has been lifted off of his chest allowing his lungs to finally open up and his head to stop spinning.

As Draco aimlessly wandered down the large stone steps at the entrance of the manor he observed the gravel drive and hedge surrounding it. Malfoy Manor must have looked grand hundreds of years ago, and parts of the manor have held up well such as the wrought iron gate and the main house-- but the acres of land surrounding the home had overgrown to the point where they were unrecognisable. Dark green weeds poked through the gravel but there were no colourful weeds like dandelions or daisies to make the drive any less bleak. The darkness was exemplified by the fact that the overgrown hedges tower high over Draco’s head, making it difficult for sunlight to cut through. Towards the end of the drive Draco cuts down through the hedge and emerges onto masses of open land. If you walked further and looked back at Malfoy Manor you once could have seen it clearly over the hedge and trees but now it was completely hidden from view. This spot is without doubt the area in the manor’s realm that gives Draco the most peace. In this space he can pretend to be anyone he wants and isn’t reminded constantly of the life he truly has. Despite it nearing the end of June Draco shivers slightly and puts his hands in his coat pockets for warmth. Ever since he could remember the manor was significantly colder than the areas surrounding it, but Draco had soon learned to love the cold.

The sun is hidden behind the clouds as Draco walks over to the edge of the woods which stretch on for miles. Since this whole area was private property he never has to worry about encountering anyone else whilst here. The most he had to worry about as a child was his Father coming down to shoot some poor birds, but Draco was fairly certain that he wasn’t at risk of being followed any time soon and so the birds could live in peace. The trees rise high and the leaves are plentiful so the woods seem even darker than usual. The darkness coupled with the sheer size of the forest should scare him and make him pay more attention to his surroundings so as not to get lost, but Draco has been walking here since he first felt uncomfortable staying in the manor for too long. He knows every tree, every root, every stream that runs through the woods like the back of his hand. More importantly he feels like he can be free here, something which he never has the luxury of in his actual ‘home’. Eventually he finds the tree under which he always finds solitude and collapses against it. Draco didn’t realise how tired he really was until he sat down, looking directly ahead at a small clearing bathed in light and in this exact moment, felt a wave of fatigue engulf him.

He’d been successful thus far in getting the numbers out of his head and completely emptying his mind-- but now he found himself in the exact same position as he had been before, only with a different surrounding. Groaning in frustration Draco shifted his position slightly so his back was directly against the trunk of the old oak tree and he closed his eyes to focus his thoughts. It seemed that he was constantly thinking of something and his brain was incapable of just shutting up for a moment, even when he so desperately needed to concentrate on just one thing. He only opened his eyes again when he heard a rustling in the ground by his feet, at which point he reluctantly looked for the source. A small, skinny dog was nudging at his feet with its nose, clearly unsure of whether or not Draco was dead. It must have been a stray because his parents were strongly against animals being allowed on the property, save the albino peacocks they’d had before the accident.

He remembers a few weeks before his eighth birthday he’d seen a tiny dog with black fur and wide, bright eyes when he had been out shopping with his mother in the town, and after that day he’d begged and pleaded his father to let him have a dog. For an eight year old he’d put forward as convincing an argument for having a dog as he could (“I promise I’ll look after it all on my own and it’ll make me into a real grown up like you want, Father!”) and eventually Lucius gave in, which Draco was shocked by at the time. On the morning of his eighth birthday Draco had ran down the main staircase to the living room where his abundance of presents were wrapped in silver and green wrapping paper. The eight year old had bypassed all the boxes and ran directly for the black Labrador with a white smudge on its nose in the middle of the room. It was small and excited and had a silver collar around its tiny, fluffy neck-- and when Draco went down to stroke its head it began dashing about his feet in excitement. The eight year old had laughed, and in that moment he had felt the happiest he had ever been. When his parents entered he did something he had never done before: he ran straight into Lucius’ arms and sobbed out of sheer joy, most likely staining his father’s satin shirt in the process. Lucius had remained uncomfortable against Draco, but the boy hadn’t expected him to react any differently. When he pulled away he looked up at his mother to thank her but had been met with sad, empty eyes and a strained smile which was more forced than usual. Draco was confused for a moment but shrugged it off; he hadn’t wanted anything to ruin the greatest birthday he’d ever had.

After a few hours Draco felt like he had a friend who would always be there for him and that Lucius approved of, he had apparently even picked him for Draco! Draco called the dog Midnight which, in hindsight, wasn’t the most creative name but the eight year old had thought it fitted the dog perfectly. At around noon Lucius came back into the living room where Draco had been playing with Midnight, teaching him to roll over and to run in circles.

“Come outside, Draco,” Lucius voice cut through the laughter and barking that made the usually soundless room seem so full of life, “And bring your dog.” Draco had nodded obediently, even though his father had been in a seemingly kind mood Draco didn’t want to push him too far. He had picked up the excited puppy who excitedly licked at his face, but Draco hadn’t been able to smile because of the uncertain feeling in his gut. As he followed his father through the hallways and out of the main entrance he quickly glanced up at Lucius and had tried to decipher his expression, yet Lucius had been unreadable.

“Where are we going Father?” Draco timidly asked, looking back at the manor which was steadily growing further and further away. He saw his mother stood on the front entrance looking sadly at Draco as he walked down the drive, but she abruptly turned and went inside when she realised he could see her. Lucius still hadn’t responded and there was an uncomfortable twisting in Draco’s stomach which made him feel queasy. He held Midnight tighter to his chest, using the dog as a source of comfort whilst he followed the tall, slender figure of his father into an open field far away from the manor. That year had seen a major heatwave and despite the sky being grey and dark the air had been uncomfortably humid. Draco could still remember how claustrophobic and queasy he had felt, and he had never been certain if it had been due to the weather or his nerves.

“Put the dog down, Draco.” Lucius’ tone had been cold and sharp, his words cut into the thick air like a knife. When Draco hesitated, Lucius rolled his eyes and grabbed the back of Midnight’s collar, plucking the confused puppy from his arms and putting him onto the ground where he began to sniff curiously at the grass, utterly oblivious to the situation.

“What are we doing out here, Father?” Draco had become increasingly more afraid of what was going to happen as Lucius looked at him pointedly before he averted his gaze across the fields. 

“Do you want to make your family proud, Draco?” 

A shiver had ran up Draco’s spine as his father’s gaze pierced his skin like a dagger. The eight year old nodded slowly, unsure of where this conversation was going. Lucius smirked slightly at the blonde haired boy before he reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a loaded pistol. Draco’s breathing turned to frantic gulps of air as his heart rate sped and he stepped back, patting at his leg in the hope that Midnight would come over to him.

“W-what’s that for, Father?” His voice trembled and he had struggled to see clearly as his eyes welled up with tears. Draco had had an idea of what the gun was for but in the innocent eyes of an eight year old he didn’t think his father would hurt anything. Lucius rolled his eyes in exasperation as he roughly shoved the gun towards Draco. Draco had violently jerked away but one glance at Lucius showed that the older man’s patience had worn thin. Draco held out his small, shaking hand and took the gun. He remembered how heavy it felt in his hand and how he felt shocked but also completely mesmerised by the cold and lethal object in his hands. Yet when he had heard his father cough impatiently the reality of the situation came crashing down and Draco had looked up at his father with wide, fearful eyes.

“Now,” Lucius’ voice was commanding and stern, “I’ll ask you one more time. Do you or don’t you want to make your family proud?” Draco’s young mind had almost stopped at that moment. He had wanted to make his parents proud, but nothing was so simple, even at that age. Draco had thought in that moment that if he did as his father demanded then maybe his parents would finally treat him like their son. Yet at the same time he hadn’t wanted to hurt anybody no matter how bad they were. Apparently his extended silence displeased Lucius who had taken a step closer to Draco, his shadowed figure engulfing the small boy.

“Your mother cares about you far more than I do Draco; even you can figure that out. But don’t be fooled; even she wouldn’t hesitate to cast you out if you don’t follow tradition. Do you know how hard your mother and I have worked to keep the family name going? We have built up the legacy of my father and have created a business which you have a duty to protect. If you don’t then you leave us no choice but to cast you out Draco, no inheritance, no title, no land, you’ll be left with nothing. Do you want that?” Every word that Lucius said chipped away at the defensive stance Draco had taken on and the child had felt as though his heart were being punctured with hundreds of needles. Tears welled in his eyes and he looked pitifully down at his shoes.Through his blurry vision Draco had seen Midnight come over and start sniffing at his feet, and the tug at his heart still resonated with him over twenty years later.

“I--,” Draco’s words came out in choked sobs, “I don’t want all of that, Father. I jus--I just want you and Mother to love me.” He practically mumbled the last part, and if it hadn’t been for the complete stillness of the air Draco doubted his father would have heard him. Then the sound of Lucius’ laughter pierced the air and Draco began to feel sick. It wasn’t the laughter of a father who was playing an elaborate and cruel joke on his child, instead it had been the laughter of a man driven to cruelty in the pursuit of creating a legacy.

“Love won’t get you anything in life, Draco,” Lucius’ laughter died down and his tone dripped of pure maliciousness with the intent to break the eight year old down so Lucius could remould him in whichever ways he wished. “Your loving mother is waiting back at the house to phone for a driver to take you to an orphanage far away from here. You will have no contact with either of us again and would become another nameless child in the system. You’re too old to be appealing to most families and not childish enough for any others. You’d be left to rot inside the four walls of a single bedroom watching other children come and go until you yourself are kicked out and left with nothing. See your mother and I do love you Draco, you are our heir after all, but love isn’t going to save you from being kicked into the dirt.”

At Lucius’ words the young boy began to cry vehemently. His knees buckled so that he was bent over and his back shook with each sob and his breathing became choked. The small dog had sensed the boy’s distress and looked up at it’s owner with wide, dark eyes, which just made Draco’s heart hurt even more. When Draco had finally looked up with clouded eyes he could barely see the man he called father through the clouds of his own anguish. “W-Why are you saying this?” the child had barely choked out, “what have I done wrong?”

“It’s not you doing something wrong Draco,” Lucius’ cruel smirk was back, “It’s about being taught an important life lesson. You are too reliant on the things around you at making you feel like you belong. The things you care about aren’t going to stay with you and you need to get used to fending for yourself. You are going to have to get used to not getting attached to things in such a childish way; caring is weakness and I don’t want weakness in my family. Do you think I am weak? Do you think my father was weak? Who are you to tarnish the legacy we have built over something so pathetic as caring. I am teaching you a valuable lesson here, draco, so to begin we’ll start with a simple task,” Lucius pointed towards the gun in Draco’s hands, “Shoot the dog, Draco.”

The emotions going through Draco’s mind had increased beyond anything he had ever felt and he began to hyperventilate. His mind couldn't comprehend what was happening; he had only just gotten Midnight-- why was his father trying to take him away from him? What did Midnight do wrong? Why does he have to shoot his friend? Is this all a trick? Is he dreaming? What would his father do if he said no? As Draco became more and more confused and panicked Lucius huffed in frustration. He dragged the oblivious puppy by its collar and had planted it firmly in front of Draco, telling it to stay. Despite just being a puppy Midnight stayed in the same spot, eagerly looking at Draco as though they were about to play a game.

Lucius had smirked at Midnight’s obedience and he aggressively clapped Draco on the back, “So you taught him to stay already, did you teach him to play dead?” At that the full gravity of the situation hit Draco and he had realised that his father wasn’t joking around, and that the threat of giving him away to an orphanage was all too real. He began to violently shake his head in complete denial of the situation and flinched away from Lucius’ presence.

“Please,” Draco throws the gun on the ground as he sobs, “Please, Dad please, I don’t- I can’t do this please don’t make me kill him. I-I’ll do better I swear I’ll do what you ask and I won’t question it. I-I’ll be the best son ever but just don’t d-do this I don’t want to hurt anything. Midnight is al-all I’ve got please-” The cries of the boy had been cut short by Lucius dragging him upwards so he was stood straight. Lucius picked up the gun from the ground and had placed it in his son’s shaking hands. He slowly moved behind the shaking child and angled the gun so that it pointed directly between the dog’s eyes.

“You shouldn’t have given it a name,” Lucius had snarled in Draco’s ear, “It just makes it complicated. Now shoot the fucking dog or I swear on the grave of my father that you’ll live the rest of your life alone with all the other unwanted children.”

Draco’s sobs had continued when he opened his eyes to look at Midnight, a dog he’d only had for a few hours but was the closest thing he had to a companion. The dog had looked confused at the distress Draco was in but still was sat looking at him with bright, wide eyes and its tongue hanging out. To this day Draco still doesn’t know exactly why he gave in to his father’s taunts. If this were to happen now he would have taken the puppy and left the family, but as a child he’d wanted nothing more than for his father to love him like a father should do. So the eight year old boy with the peroxide blonde hair and tears streaming down his porcelain cheeks had clenched his eyes tightly shut, and pulled the trigger. 

The shot echoed across the bare fields and seemed to carry on for hours, and when it stopped the air stagnated around them. After a brief moment Draco had let out an inhuman wail. The horrible noise cut through the silence like a knife through flesh and was only broken by Lucius harshly slapping the screaming child across the face. That was the first and last time his father ever hit him. 

When Draco’s cousins eagerly asked him what he had gotten for his birthday later on at a family gathering he’d looked at them with dead eyes and told them that he’d gotten a snakeskin notebook.

After that, Draco became colder every day, and he didn’t ever think to care about anyone or anything. There are many reasons why Draco resents his father, a key one being how he was denied a ‘normal’ childhood. He never had a birthday party with his friends from school as Lucius didn’t think that they were worthy of entering the Malfoy home, he had never been allowed an actual pet to keep him company, and most of all he resented Lucius for never letting him be anything more than the perfect Malfoy heir who would someday marry a wealthy woman from a family on the same level if not higher than the Malfoys and he would carry on his father’s legacy. Sometimes Draco questions whether his father was like him when he was younger, whether he wanted to rebel against Draco’s grandfather and move to Italy to become a philosopher or something. But that would mean Draco was like Lucius, and Draco was nothing like Lucius. Even as a child he went against what his father wanted to some extent, until the dog incident taught that it was better to just do what Lucius wanted. In a strange way he misses the simplicity of childhood, he was told what to do, where to be, what to wear, what to eat, what to say, who to be. Now there’s no one left to guide him and Draco doesn’t know who he is well enough to guide himself.

Forced back to the present, he carefully held his hand out for the dog to come up and sniff, and surprisingly the animal took an instant liking to him. Draco smiles slightly as the dog licks the palm of his hand, and his smile widens when the dog begins to follow him on the walk back up to the manor. Draco wouldn’t mind a companion, even though it may be a furry one, and he hopes that Harry likes dogs. Although his trip to the woods hasn’t enlightened him with any new knowledge about the numbers and the mystery caller Draco almost wishes that he had been fixated on the numbers. Yes the numbers were frustrating him but when coupled with memories of Midnight it was like salt in an open wound.

By the time Draco returns to the manor the sun is much lower in the sky and the hedge is casting distorted shadows across the great walls. He smiles as the dog barked excitedly when they entered the house, and a soft chuckle escapes his lips when he imagines how his father would react to seeing this, especially a stray. After Draco has washed the dog’s matted fur and fed it some scraps of meat he decides on spending the remainder of his evening in the main office sorting through the decades of paperwork his father had neglected. Part of Draco’s job as the only member of his father’s business is to sort out the masses of paperwork he had let fall into disorder, and Draco has always found organisation to be a relaxing task.

A few hours of reading and sorting through notes about assassinations pass and Draco has learned far too much about certain members of the 1980s government and the exact method of their assassinations, the inclusion of coloured photographs adding only more to his understanding. There was a significant drop in the 1990s, most likely due to his birth, and Draco smirks at the thought that his father must have been extremely annoyed that the birth of his son had hindered the businesses’ killing progress. The majority of the cases were mundane and straightforward (as mundane and straightforward as assassinations could be, anyway) but one in particular catches his attention. Attached to the inside of a document from 3rd June 1998 is a picture of a family of nine smiling happily at the camera, but what Draco’s eyes are drawn to is the small black Labrador with a white mark on its nose sat in the middle of them. Draco stares in confusion for a moment or two, squinting at the picture in confusion. Although it's been around 20 years Draco is almost certain that the dog is Midnight, but the rational side of his brain is telling him that that’s ridiculous. But the date is from 3rd June, only two days before his eighth birthday when he was given an identical dog. Looking inside the file he learns that the father, James Rhodes, had gotten into debt with Voldemort and when he couldn’t pay him back Lucius had been sent to execute the whole family. Usually Voldemort’s lackeys (or the ‘Death Eaters’ as they liked to be called) would be involved in such a large scale job since they were typically a lot more violent, but Lucius had owed Voldemort a favour and so he was sent in to do the dirty work, but had probably decided the dog would be best used for Draco instead. What catches Draco out, after the initial surprise that his dog had belonged to an executed family (it’s an extremely Lucius thing to do), is the fact that Lucius only reported eight executions and there are nine people in the photo. Lucius Malfoy was by no means a good man, but he had been damn good at his job and it's just not the kind of thing that he would intentionally let slide. Unless one of the people wasn’t there for some reason and for some reason Lucius decided they weren’t worth the effort tracking down. Knowing Lucius it was possible that in his arrogance he didn’t think the person who was lucky enough to evade assassination would be competent enough to track them down, and so he probably just lied to Voldemort by saying they were all dead.

Just as Draco was about to put the file away and call it a night the numbers from the phone call rang out in his head again. “980603,” Draco murmured to himself, looking over the file again, before the realisation hit and he flipped the numbers around, “030698.” 

Once again it could just be a coincidence, but unlike Lucius, Draco was not arrogant enough to think that people won’t be able to figure out who his family are and to track them down. Running through options in his head Draco settles on tracking the caller from the landline. Even though he didn’t have the knowledge or expertise to track an unknown caller he did have a family friend who worked at the police station and could most likely track the call in a matter of minutes. Although it was somewhat of a risk getting an outsider in on what could potentially turn out to be an assassination Draco had a sufficient amount of dirt on Blaise Zabini to make his life significantly more complicated if the occasion called for it. 

**Draco (22:06) **Can you track calls made to my landline?  
**** **Blaise (22:08) **Wat am I gonna get tho?  
** **Draco (22:09) **I won’t fuck you over, which you know damn well I can. You’ve got the number already so do it.  
**Blaise (22:10) **K man chill it's all good just a minute yea?.  
**Blaise (22:20) **Aight so I tracked the number, weren’t encrypted or anything. Got the address I’ll text the address to u but u need to obvs delete the messages bc like I don’t wanna be fired.  
**Draco (22:22) **Fine.******************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta once again by @Sevondia :)  
> Can we also appreciate that chapters 3, 4 and 5 were all originally one giant chapter but I've had to split them all up oh my god this fic will be the death of me but I love it anyway! I hope whoever's reading this mess is enjoying it and please comment and kudos and all that jazz!


	5. Chapter 5

Draco looked up the address from Blaise and saw that the cottage it would take him to was on the outskirts of the next town over. It seemed secluded enough, should things get a little messy. As insufferable as Blaise’s language was Draco had to admit he was actually fairly decent at his job, although not that Draco would ever say that to his face. Grabbing his phone and the bag containing his [plastic suit](https://www.google.co.uk/search?rlz=1C1OPRB_enGB543GB543&tbm=isch&sa=1&ei=wdhiW-DtKoTJgAad86zQBg&q=hannibal+plastic+suit&oq=hannibal+plastic+suit&gs_l=img.3...0.0.0.10845.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0..0.0....0...1c..64.img..0.0.0....0.iP5ko46b4X8) and guns, Draco quickly heads out the house and onto the fields. Draco is thankful for the dimming sky as a cloak of darkness means there’ll be a lot less potential witnesses wandering around on the hills. The adrenaline pumping through his veins adds a slight bounce to his step; if anyone saw him they’d presume he was off to have a date with someone he loved, not off to kill someone he had never met before. It had been a month or so since he had last killed, and even then that was a paid job. This is different, he isn’t getting paid for it but he’s treating it like a mission. It’s not that Draco hasn’t killed out of necessity before, a few years ago there had been countless times when he needed to dispose of an unsavoury individual who threatened his family. Draco doesn’t see himself as a proud man focussed on values, not in the same way as Lucius, but he is well aware that sometimes you have to get your hands dirty to keep your future clean. This was one of those cases. If there was even the slightest possibility that the surviving family member could expose the nature of his family business to the general public Draco needed to act fast to stop it. He debates taking a car to reach his destination quicker, but a loud car driving across the moors would be a lot more noticeable than a lone traveller, and Draco doesn’t particularly want to be caught mid-kill.

After about an hour and a half of walking across the hills and looking at the towns below Draco reached a wire fence cutting the old, crumbling farm house from the fields surrounding it. The walls were holding up as well as they could but it was clear that the house was in dire need of refurbishment if the owner wanted to preserve it. The battered roof had tarpaulin over large patches, and nearly all the windows had cracks in them. Despite its pitiful appearance the house was clearly inhabited as Draco could see by the light shining through the windows. The cover of darkness meant that anyone inside would barely be able to see Draco standing across from the window, but Draco could see the middle aged man bustling around the brightly lit kitchen. Draco didn’t recognise him from the photograph but he presumed the man must have been one of the older children given his age. His hair was going grey and there were bald patches appearing in random places, most likely a sign of stress and not of old age. His clothes were ill fitted and worn, the brown, plaid shirt and denim jeans showing a clear lack of care and maintenance. Draco couldn’t see below the man’s waist as he moved past the windows but he assumed the shoes were in no better condition. He also appeared to have a limp as Draco watched him move at the awkward angle; an added bonus making Draco’s job a hell of a lot easier. It was always annoying when you had to chase a target.

As the man apparently settled down to eat Draco slowly and silently moved around the house, assessing potential exit and entry points. He considered cutting the phone lines in case the man attempted to call for help but decided against it just in case the police suspected a meticulous killing as opposed to a general homicide when they eventually found the body. There was no one around for miles so he didn’t have to worry about anyone coming by, but the darkness would make it difficult to track the man if he escaped. Hopefully the limp would hinder that course of action. As Draco came to the front door after encircling the whole house he was surprised to find it already open. ‘God he must be going senile’ Draco thought to himself as he quietly pulled the plastic suit on over his clothes and loaded his guns. Just to be safe he kept a cocked pistol in his hand as he softly walked into the house, sticking close to the walls to keep the doors in his direct line of sight. There was a set of rickety stairs towards the centre of the house but the lack of a bannister and the general instability they seemed to have assured Draco that no one would be running up and down them. He can’t be one-hundred percent certain that the man was home alone however he appears to be cooking for one and there are no other lights on in house. Even if there was someone else in the house they most likely wouldn’t pose any immediate threat to Draco’s plan.

Draco kept the gun pointed in front of him as he walked down the hall lit only by lamps, sticking to the shadows until he came to the door to what he assumed to be the kitchen. The wooden door was slightly off of its hinges and only partially open, so Draco couldn’t see what the man was doing. There was a lamp near the door frame which would no doubt cast a shadow and give away his presence if he attempted to listen at the door, so he decided to use the element of surprise to his advantage at this time. He pushed open the door suddenly and walked into the brightly lit kitchen, pointing his gun directly at the man sat at the table eating a bowl of soup. To Draco’s surprise the man didn’t look panicked at the intrusion; instead turning a blind eye as he merely went back to eating. Draco took this moment to scan the room for any phones or weapons, but all he could see was the pots and pans, not even any kitchen knives. He flicked his eyes back to the man who was still silently enjoying his soup, trying to figure out what was running through his mind at this moment. His questions were answered when the man sighed, wiped his mouth with a piece of tissue and set his spoon down.

“Ya gonna stand there pointing that gun at me all night or ya gonna sit down?” The man looked at Draco with a bored expression, like Draco’s being there were a nuisance and not a clear threat on his life. Draco narrowed his gaze and glanced briefly at the chair opposite the man before looking back at the man.

“I’m fine up here thanks,” Draco’s tone was short and direct, his confusion at the situation causing his patience to wear thin, “Are you the one who’s been calling?” The man sighed and gestured to the chair again with a bored expression. Draco clenched his jaw in annoyance but walked to the chair, never taking his eyes or gun off the man. When he was sat down he rested his elbow on the table, angling the gun directly between the man’s eyes. “Answer me, now.”

“First off I ain’t gonna go running, case ya ‘ant noticed I got a bad leg. And yea I called yer house, took ya long enough to pop by, thought ya were a skilled tracker. Oh wait nah that was yer daddy weren’t it?” Draco cocked the gun and didn’t say anything. The man rolled his eyes and leant back in his chair, “So I guess ya got questions?”

“Not particularly,” Draco sneered, “I’d rather just shoot you right now and be done with it.”

“So why ‘ant ya done it yet?” The man grinned widely, showing a mouth full of crooked teeth, “Tell ya what I think, I think ya ain’t gonna shoot me ‘cause you wanna know why yer daddy didn’t kill me in ‘98.” Draco remained silent and the man nodded proudly, “Thought so. Tell ya what, I’ll make ya a deal.”

“I don’t negotiate,” Draco looked dead into the man’s eyes, “I’m not leaving until you’re dead. But I’ll humour a dead man, what do you propose?”

“I tell ya what happened if ya listen an’ ‘humour me’ as ya phrased it. Guessin’ ya know who Voldemort is, or did yer daddy not wanna scare ya with the big bad boss?”

“Of course I know who Voldemort is, I’m not an idiot.” Draco snapped.

“Thought so,” the man nodded, “Got a lot more balls than yer daddy did, kid. And put that fuckin’ gun down, I got bad eyes an’ that’s messin’ me focus up.”

Draco reluctantly laid his arm down on the table but kept his hand and index finger tightly on the gun. “Well?” Draco leant forward, “What do you have to tell me?”

“This house has been in me family for years ya know? We used to be a big deal like you Malfoys, but we didn’t like doin’ illegal shit like yer people did. This whole areas full of clay soil, used to make a fortune offa it. But as ya can probably tell that didn’t last much past the 1850s. Hadda sell everythin’, ya know we used to have a big house a couple farms over? Got taken by this lord in the 1890s an’ we were left with this shithole. Anyway am getting’ side tracked. 

Things got worse ‘bout 30 years back when weather changed and the ground was fulla water all the time, couldn’t sell nothin’. We couldn’t even afford to move outta here, so me parents went to yer daddy askin’ for some money. He hooked ‘em up with Voldemort who gave it to ‘em sure, just didn’t tell ‘em about the payback time an’ how yer family dealt with folks who couldn’t pay ‘em back. 

So in ’98 yer dear ol’ daddy came knockin’ on an’ demandin’ the money for Voldemort like some bitch to a fuckin’ lord from 1300s. Obviously me family were still livin’ off the dirt and couldn’t pay it all back, so he came back couple days later he shot ‘em all and took ma niece’s puppy. Dunno what happened to the lil guy, got off lighter than rest of us. 

I weren’t round ‘ere at the time, off in Europe tryna sort out apprenticeships with this big car company. Clearly didn’t make no difference since am still ‘ere in this goddamn house. Thought yer daddy was gone come hunt me down with a pitchfork when I got back an’ found their bodies, but he never did an’ am guessin’ he never told Voldemort since him an’ his Death Eaters ain’t ever come lookin’ for me. One good thing that blonde bastard ever did for ma family. 

But now I wanna get in touch with Voldemort, give him a lil bit of payback for what he did. Ya know ma niece were only three year old? God I ain’t ever gone forget what she looked like when I found ‘em. Half her fuckin’ face were missin’ and the flies had made her into their own goddamn playground. That evil son of a bitch is gonna pay for that.”

Draco had remained silent throughout the man’s story, and the missing information in the file finally made sense. Lucius was terrified of Voldemort, that much Draco knew, and so it wasn’t surprising he attempted to hide his failure. He does genuinely feel bad for the man, no matter what the parents have done the children should never be pulled into this mess of a world. But that doesn’t change the fact that the man is a liability to Draco, and Draco sure as hell wasn’t going to let his father’s mistakes be his downfall.

“I’m sorry,” Draco’s voice is quiet but steady, “But my point still stands, I’m not leaving here until you’re dead.”

“I know,” the man stands up abruptly and Draco instantly lifts the gun, “Woah kiddo am jus’ puttin’ ma bowl in the sink no need to go all ape shit. An’ I respect that yer not gonna let me leave, don’t want yer daddy’s mistake fuckin’ up yer life anymore. So ere’s what yer gonna do. Yer gonna contact Voldemort right now an’ tell him that if he wants to tie up some loose ends he better get his ugly ass down here and sort it out himself.”

“And why the fuck would I do that?” Draco snorted, “I can just shoot you right now and be done with it. I have no intention of getting involved in Voldemort’s little games. Do it yourself.”

The man smirked as he leant against the sink, and a subtle feeling of unease settled in Draco’s stomach. “Ya know ya do spend a lotta time in those woods by yer house. Enough time for someone to walk into that big ol’ mansion and plant a timer in the room where ya keep yer folks. Yer pretty fucked up kid, keepin’ ‘em locked up in that house like prisoners. I’d be doin’ ‘em a favour. So yer gonna do as I say or else I don’t tell ya how to stop the bomb goin’ off an’ its bye bye mummy an’ daddy.” The man handed over a phone to Draco, looking at him expectantly. As much as Draco despised his parents, especially Lucius, he didn’t have the heart to kill them. They were still his parents after all, or at least that’s what he told himself as he dialled the number for the headquarters of Voldemort’s organisation. Someone picked up on the third ring but didn’t say anything.

“It’s Draco Malfoy, Lucius’ son. Put me through.” He tried to sound demanding but the slight tremble in his voice gave him away.

“Password.” The bored voice of a woman sounded over the phone, Draco vaguely recognised it but he couldn’t place her.

“Parseltongue.” Draco hoped to God that was correct otherwise he’d be in a lot of shit. Thankfully he was, and before he knew it the low voice of Voldemort was sending shivers up his spine.

“Draco, this is a surprise. What is the meaning of this call?”

“Um, there’s a loose end you’ve left. Cymbeline farm, about six miles from Malfoy Manor. Come quick.” With that Draco hung up the phone and tossed it back to the man, “Now tell me how to disable the bomb.”

The man wagged his finger mockingly, “Nah-ah, yer waitin’ ‘ere until he arrives. Still got six hours left on the clock, didn’t know how long we’d be talkin’.” Draco felt his fists clench in anger and he tried to focus on keeping his breathing steady. There was no use in panicking in a time like this. He let his mind wander far away from this current situation and found himself thinking of Harry. The man’s presence was extremely calming so Draco pretended he was here with him, as childish as that may seem. Thoughts about Harry ran through Draco’s mind like wildfire, filling his head with images of the dark haired man. He was still a mystery to Draco and as much as Draco liked being the smartest one in the room he knew damn well that he’d met his match. He knew he would give anything to just glimpse inside the mind of Harry, he wanted to know every inch of his mind, wanted to know what makes him tick, what makes his heart speed up and what makes him break down in tears and not want to get up in the morning. It’s somewhat amusing to Draco to think of various interactions he could have with Harry, but ultimately he knows nothing could ever come of wishful thinking. They may be similar but Draco highly doubts Harry would be willing to have any form of a platonic let alone romantic relationship with an assassin. And even if he did it would simply be too great a risk for the two of them. Take the situation Draco is currently in; he’s somehow gotten his parents hooked up to a bomb and now he’s waiting for the most infamous mob boss in the UK to come and do who the fuck knows to a random man who owed Lucius a whole lot of money. Throw Harry into the mix and Draco just doesn’t think he could handle that. Then again he is a damn good liar and if he was as careful with Harry as he is with everything else then there’s no need for Harry to ever find out about this part of Draco’s life.

‘I’ve royally screwed myself over haven’t I?’ Draco thinks with a small smile. Trust him to build up all these walls just to have them come crashing down for a man he barely knows. Plus he’s now using Harry as a coping mechanism for stressful situations. Even Draco knows that such a fixation isn’t particularly healthy, but he can’t bring himself to stop. God, psychiatrists would have a field day poking around inside his head. But the distraction of Harry clearly works because by the time there was a knock on the door he hadn’t had a mental breakdown. He blinked slowly and glanced at the oven clock, raising his eyebrows when he realises he’s fazed out for half an hour. The man coughed to capture Draco’s attention and nodded stiffly. Draco sighed and reluctantly walked through to the door, opening it to reveal the towering figure of Voldemort. Draco had met the man when he was younger and had seen him many times over the years but every time seemed to be more and more unsettling. He looked like the Grim Reaper in the books Draco used to read, a sunken, pale face shrouded in darkness both physically and metaphorically.

“In the kitchen, down the hall.” Draco’s voice was surprisingly calm for someone so anxious. Voldemort didn’t speak as he walked into the house, merely signalling to the Death Eaters with him to stay outside. Draco couldn’t quite make out their faces in their darkness and didn’t particularly feel comfortable walking up to them and making conversation so he turned back inside and followed Voldemort down the hall to the kitchen.

The man stood up as soon as Voldemort entered, and Voldemort looked him up and down with an air of boredom and annoyance at being brought out for this.

“Wait outside, Draco.” Those were the first words Voldemort had spoken to Draco and Draco was more than happy to oblige. He tried to be subtle in his desperation to leave the room but he still practically ran to the door and let out a sigh of relief when he entered the hallway. He slumped down to the floor next to the doorframe and blocked out the sound of the men talking in the room next to him. In all that had happened in this one day he had almost forgotten about the coffee date (if you could call it a date) he had with Harry the next morning. Or it could be today, Draco had lost track of time after a while. He had just wanted a simple kill; it should have been so easy-- but no, of course his father had to make a mistake which would royally mess Draco around. His eyes were heavy with fatigue and he hoped Voldemort would just hurry up and shoot the man so Draco could go to bed. It was still a long walk back to his house and he was certainly not asking for a lift from the Death Eaters.

“Draco.” Voldemort’s voice snapped Draco out of his thoughts and he reluctantly re-entered the room. The brightness seemed even more overpowering on his tired eyes and he was surprised to see the man still so calm despite having been in the company of someone Draco found even more terrifying than Lucius. Draco looked expectantly at Voldemort, wondering why his presence was needed. Voldemort handed Draco the gun that Draco had left on the kitchen table, and a shiver of déjà vu ran through Draco as he recalled his father handing him the gun to kill Midnight all those years ago.

“Would you do the honours Draco?” Voldemort’s voice was smooth and calm, juxtaposing the manic gleam in his eyes, “After all, you were the one who discovered this mistake of your father’s.” Draco was a lot quicker to take this gun than he had been to take the one to kill Midnight. He turned to the man and looked at him with dead eyes, curiosity rising about why he was so willing to die.

“Can I ask him a question?” Draco quietly asked Voldemort who nodded, leaning back against the wall to watch the scene unfold. Turning back to the man Draco asked, “Why did you wait until now? You’ve known all these years why did you only phone now?” The man slowly walked over to the fridge and Draco kept the gun pointed at him as he pulled a sheet of paper off and walked over to Draco. He held it up for Draco to read, and Draco squinted at the messy scrawl before his heart sank in realisation.

“How long?”

“Less than three months,” The man shrugged nonchalantly, “By the time doctors caught it it’d spread too much. Ya called me a dead man before, bet ya didn’t know how right ya were. Code for detonating the bombs on fridge, look its right ‘ere. Yer a good kid, get outta this business while ya can.”

“Hurry up Draco,” Voldemort began to sound annoyed, “Just shoot him already.”

The man smiled slightly at Draco, a genuine smile this time and not the grin from before. Draco took a deep breath and pulled the trigger. He didn’t flinch as the wall turned red and the body of the man thudded to the floor in a pool of his own blood, a small smile still left on his lips.

“Great,” Voldemort clapped, “Now that’s over with, I’ve been meaning to ask you about joining my organisation. We could use someone like you, Draco.”

“Someone like me?” Draco’s eyes didn’t leave the bloody body.

“Yes, someone who can detach himself completely. You’d be a valuable asset. Think about it Draco, you know where I am.” Voldemort gently ran his hand along Draco’s shoulder as he left the room, and when Draco heard the door shut his knees buckled and he almost fell to the ground. He stumbled over to the fridge and pulled the scrap paper with the instructions, breathing deeply and heavily. He slipped on some plastic gloves to avoid fingerprints before arranged the gun in the man's hand to make it look like a suicide. He’d thankfully shot the man at an angle where the blood splatter was behind his head, but he still took the routine precautions of staging a suicide. Draco arranged the corpse so it was sat at the table and positioned so that the blood splatter seemed to make sense. Motive is always vital when staging a suicide, but this man has no need for a note. No one was close enough to him to come by his house soon so he wouldn’t have anyone to write to. Draco glanced around the room carefully and spotted a photo frame with a photograph of the man and his family. ‘Perfect’, Draco thinks as he places the photo directly in front of the dead man. He does consider some blood drops on the frame but decides against that extra level of embellishment. Less is more after all. 

The fresh air hitting his face as he steps outside the house is a vast relief; he had no idea how stuffy it was in there until he was out. The walk back to his house was a blur, and as he stumbled up to the room where his parents stayed his mind was completely blank. He only began to think when he walked over to the dresser specified in the instructions, opened it, and curiously cocked his head at the note in the otherwise empty draw. He hesitantly opened it and stared at the paper.

There was just a single word written on the paper in the same handwriting as the instuctions:  
_Quit. ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again thank you @Sevondia for being my favourite human/beta ever <3  
> Also I spent ages on that hyperlink Elliot Alderson is shaking, I put it in because I wasn't sure if everyone would get what a 'plastic suit' was and I didn't really know how to describe it.  
> As always please kudos and comment ily all!


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